End of Tunnel

I cannot tell you the things I feel about
or how funny the joke was on the radio
or how I got lost and still found my way out of an unfamiliar place,

I cannot tell you the joy which to me the sunset brings
and the glimmer of each dotted star on a clear sky
and the breeze of the wind from the shoreline,

For I know
they won’t change a thing
whatever your mind thinks
or the way you feel,

But would you help me in this task?
Only this little favor of mine,
hoping it won’t take up too much of your time:

Hold on.
No matter how hard it is for you.
Do not lose your fingers, slipping one by one from gripping that single string of hope.

Hold on.
You may not see it now, or tomorrow, or the coming days,
but like a caterpillar in its cocoon, eventually a butterfly will come out,
there will come a time,
the end to all the sufferings, heartache and pain.

Hold on.
I’m reaching you my hand, you can hold it,
any way you want,
on your own terms, I won’t mind.

Just hold on.
with you I will stay,
trust me darling, i will
till we both see the light
at the end of the tunnel.


Small Talks

Small talks.

That’s not what I crave for. Tell me your biggest fears, your worst nightmares. The person you always dreamed of becoming when you were a kid, and why you think it’s an improbable dream now that you’re grown up. The reason why you never finished reading a particular book. Tell me what ticks you off and how you’re able to find peace just by looking at the serene night sky. Tell me about that old man you saw in the train, clutching his own cane, alone. Or how you would rather not wear your jacket in the midst of a February midnight breeze. Tell me about your frustrations and what makes you hate people so much. Tell me something you’ve never told anyone else before.

I wanna know the depths of your mind, see the shadows of your heart. I want to embrace your humanity—you as a person of vulnerability and strength, not just another being forced to live just because you were given life. I want to trace my fingers through every inch of the scars your soul acquires every time you find yourself lost and no one heard your cries. Because I want to be that person who hears. I want to kiss all your bruises whenever life knocks you down yet you still find a way to wake up everyday with a forgiving smile. I want to be the person who helps you heal your ache. I want to be the one you find yourself at home with whenever you cannot seem to find a place where you can fit in this desolate world.

All I want is to be that someone who never leaves you at your lowest point. Who bears with you no matter how rough and ugly things could get. That someone who believes in you when you don’t. Not because I want the same intense of affection from you in return, but because I know exactly what it feels to yearn for a company that’s never there, and I don’t want you to feel that way.

And it’s okay, if you cannot be the same for me, trust me.

I’ll be okay.

Random Musing

They say I cannot love someone else if I didn’t love myself first. Or that I cannot help somebody else, if I didn’t help myself first.

But would I let these lack of self-love, and helplessness stop me from loving others more than I love myself, or save someone before I can save myself?

I won’t let it, if I have to. I will still do it, if that’s the only way I can find purpose in my living. Even if it means I’d give more than what I have, even if I end up broken; I’ll pick myself up—I’ll deal with that. But what I can’t handle is to see the people I care about suffer, while I sit here in the comforts of my own delusional pyschobabble thinking everything will eventually turn out fine without even me taking action.

Ordinary Universe

​Her mind is
Nothing but a wonderful blessing
Always yearning
Always growing

And here I am
But a blunt feather
Blown away by her endless wind
I float along the hush of her whisper
Of how grand of an angel she is
Eternally too big
And too much
To fit in
Our ordinary universe.

Scribbles in Sheets

​Scribbles in sheets-

Hues differ from another-

Faces of their kind

Vulnerably carved.

Scribbles in sheets-

Covered in dust, may be,

Rather dull of nostalgia

To no degree.

Scribbles in sheets-

Apart from flesh and blood-

Are what keeps us all


Where Was I?

Where was I when troubles caged your soul?
A wild eagle captured to amuse
Pair of lifeless wings
Such beauty that cannot soar.

Where was I when you screamed aloud at the stage,
Proclaiming your new found joy?
While faceless vessels hail,
Send their blessing.
Or was I not there at all?

Continue reading “Where Was I?”